The Assassin
by kataract52
Summary: Bella Donna accepts a contract for the royal family of Wakanda and finds herself caught in a civil war. AU.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Marvel's characters.

 **Author's Note:** This entire story was an exercise on my part to build the Osuwu family characters in my own mind. They are featured in another story, 'Raven Legacy: Coming Home', which doesn't tie into this one at all. Also, I really love Bella Donna, so it was purely a fun exercise that I had no intention of publishing. But lately, she's been getting a lot of flak around here and it stinks. I considered writing a one-shot for her when I unearthed this thing I'd started four years ago. I brushed it off, finished it, and have submitted it for your reading pleasure.

Some disclaimers: as with all of my work, this story contains many adult themes. Please realize the main character isn't a hero or even a good role model. Every chapter is prefaced with a Bible verse endorsing violence. Two reasons for this: one, if you subscribe to this faith, I hope to challenge your so-called religion of peace; two, I want prove that Bella Donna is as true and noble a Christian as the Pope himself. The implication from Marvel is that Remy has the moral high ground because he only steals _things_ but she steals _lives_. Biblically, the reverse is true.

If you choose to proceed, I hope you enjoy. Thank you.

 **Chapter One  
** _"When I say unto the wicked, O wicked man, thou shalt surely die; if thou dost not speak to warn the wicked from his way, that wicked man shall die in his iniquity; but his blood will I require at thine hand."  
~Ezekiel 33:8_

 _Krishnagiri, India  
Belle Speaks  
_A man who believes in karma shouldn't make a living by thieving. Not off the poor. Robin Hood was a hero because he bullied the bullies and protected the weak. A man who exploits the weak is a predator and a bad one at that. Not "bad" like the boogie man – just bad. "Bad" in the sense that karma has him marked, and once it hits, he won't even have the sympathy of strangers.

I watch him approach the Patel residence around dusk. He's too bold to wait for night. An elderly couple begrudgingly invites him in. They don't want the neighbors to overhear the conversation. Before long, he exits with heavier pockets and a lighter step. He thinks this life never ends.

He visits two more houses and retraces his steps. By now, it's night, and the real predators are alive. Predators like me.

I dispatch of him in a half-lit alley, and in less than eight minutes, his limbs stop struggling. It isn't a neat kill, but I want him to see death coming. I want him to feel the dread and hopelessness he so freely inflicted. I want him to know he was powerless and no matter how much noise he made, no one would help him.

I almost forget about the money.

Unlike a thief, I leave the hefty sum inside the Patel's tea kettle.

 _New Orleans  
_ In a corner café sat a dark man with a stiff back to the door. Belle couldn't suppress a smile. He busied himself with the Sunday crossword, delaying his coffee and occupying the back booth on her account. He didn't know why she never sat with her back to the door, but kindly acquiesced. Undoubtedly, he dismissed it as one of her quirks – like not owning a car, always carrying a knife, and praying so often.

He finally noticed her as she reached the booth. He stood, helped her out of her coat, and impatiently snapped for the waitress. He was dark and imposing with an assertive tone and unflinching eyes, but this had never bothered Belle the way it bothered other women. She was drawn to his power, which sustained itself and didn't feed on cruelty or ambition. Beneath this shell beat the kindest heart. The waitress wouldn't think so, but it was true. His generosity supported his ex-wife and their sons in New York and his parents in distant India. When his parents suddenly asked for more money, he worked longer. Belle missed him those nights and was eager to have him back.

"Two black coffees," Belle told the girl, her attention on Pransu.

He tucked away his paper and pen and once the waitress was out of hearing range, said: "How was your flight?"

"Miserable. No place like home."

The waitress returned with their drinks and Belle waited for her to leave again.

"How're Purvi and the boys?" she asked.

"My no-good sons continue wasting my money at big American universities. Purv says they need to be settled down, but I pity the poor girls who get saddled with them. They bring me such shame."

"Cut them off. They're grown, they can support themselves."

"And _add_ to my shame? I came here for a better life. I studied hard, worked long hours for many, many years to give my children a proper education. They squander the opportunities now, but they will learn. I did not work so that I could drive an enormous car while my sons struggle as I have."

Belle felt eyes on her, as sure and subtle as sunlight on her neck. She looked out to the street and saw the usual bustle. In the café, patrons minded their cups and conversations. She shook off the notion and returned her attention to Pransu, who hadn't missed her distraction.

"I've been selfish, forgive me," he said. "Please, tell me about your trip to Milwaukee."

While she spoke, he lit up a cigar. The waitress hadn't the nerve to reprimand him and so pretended not to notice as he used his saucer for an ash tray.

She was beginning to think she loved this man, which was strange. Love was a-many hi-jinxed splendor, like a firework display launched too near the ground. It always felt her dazed and badly burned. But she'd never loved a good and honest man before.

After coffee, she walked him to his car. She resisted the urge to twist her hair and smile helplessly, and shoved her hands in her back pockets instead.

"Would you like a ride?" he asked. "I have time to take you home before the golf tournament."

" _Non, merci_. Weather's nice and I'd like to visit my father today."

Unlike a Southern gentleman, he didn't fret over her safety and insist on accompanying her to the cemetery. Instead, he gave a surprisingly warm and soft kiss farewell and departed.

Alone, she again felt hunted. Something was watching her – she was sure of it now. Whoever, or _whatever_ , it was, felt _malevolent_. Omnipresent. The moment she was vulnerable, it would spring on her like a trap and leave her soul in tatters.

New Orleans is a savage beauty. The low lying oak branches, heavy with Spanish moss, encourage you to slow down so the man in the shadows can slit your throat. The broken streets, which grip your heels, also help thieves slip away like ghosts. And should you make it home alive, there's certainly a hex hiding in your pocket, waiting to be carried inside.

Bella Donna, a beautiful woman who lived alone, should've been the city's victim. Instead, she was its secret queen. Trained in the arts of combat, torture, and assassination since childhood, she now stood at the head of an ancient and merciless guild. Cutthroats and voodoo witches saw _her_ in their nightmares.

As she entered the cemetery, the clouds of the past receded, letting the sunlight break through. It was quiet here. She could be alone with her thoughts. With care, she cleared away white and black droplets from her family crypt and rested on her bottom. The stone which housed her family's remains seemed an immense burden. The Boudreaux clan traced its lineage back to the ancient warrior Sariel, christened the Angel of Death by God Almighty. When at last death devoured her, too, the bird droppings would remain untouched. Nearly three decades of repetitive shots to her abdomen left her womb too scarred to conceive, and her brother met his gruesome end before he sired any children. It was God's will that she was the last of her line.

Eye prickled the back of her head once more. Furious, she surveyed the area. More tourists. Mourning natives. Fat squirrels and pigeons, as greedy as anything with two legs.

A little girl broke away from her mother and chased after a sparrow. The bird flittered and found sanctuary in a tree. The child pursued, but stopped short of the wide oak and became frightened by something she saw. Her mother came up behind her and snatched her hand, wearily watching a man who'd been hiding.

So this stalker was flesh and blood, _not_ demonic!

Belle sent her fury to her finger tips and felt them burn. There, the anger glowed, ready to fire at her command. Her enemies wouldn't hesitate to eliminate any witnesses, and while he was distracted with the little girl, Belle had the advantage. She flanked him and was about to blast when he came into view. Shaggy, auburn hair. Deft fingers raised in surrender. High and broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist.

Remy LeBeau.

The mere sight of him – even the _backside_ – caused anger to ride up in her like a storm. Powering down, she pelted him with insults and punches. So _he'd_ been the one spying on her all morning!

"Easy, chere!" he pleaded, "I came all the way from New York to see you!"

Suddenly, her anger deflated and she was eighteen again. He'd visibly aged, but some things never changed. He needed only to speak and people loved him. _She_ loved him. But recalling the pain that came with his love, she steeled her heart.

"Why're you here?"

He answered with a kiss and she responded with a slap.

"What's the matter?" he smiled slyly and rubbed his jaw. "Afraid Hadji's gonna see?"

"No, cher, _Pransu_ ain't the kind of man to be jealous over a cretin jumpin' me at the cemetery! I can't believe you! I _finally_ find a man and-! I know what this is… She threw you out again, didn't she? N'awlins is a long haul for a booty call."

"Belle, please… Don't talk about my wife that way."

" _Ex_ -wife. Go run yourself through like my brother should've!"

She left victorious but feeling deplorable. He haunted her mind all day. Continuously, she glanced over her shoulder but neither saw nor felt his presence. Was he in trouble? And what trouble was he going to cause? It was a relief, then, when the sun set and she could bury herself in work.

…

Reckless brass, impulsive drums, and a screaming guitar deafened Belle as she entered the bar. This was work, and business was good. College kids, singles, and young tourists packed in: alternating between pulsing on the floor and panting at the bar. A slender, petite girl juggled orders. On stage, a Mexican immigrant and his blues band performed. Half a dozen burly men occupied the floor, working as waiters, bouncers, and bus boys.

Even though it wasn't her job, Belle jumped behind the bar and started taking drink orders. Marie was her favorite and she didn't conceal it. One day, this tiny, dark-skinned beauty would inherit Belle's family business: the bar and ancient sect that hid behind it.

Marie's uncle, Gris-Gris, was Belle's lieutenant and the most fearsome man of their crew. His massive body was covered with grotesque cars and missing bits like an eighteenth century pirate. His greatest source of pride were his dreadlocks, now three feet long, excluding the piece Remy had spitefully destroyed years ago. Gris-Gris had served Belle's father but she still knew little about him. Until Marie's sudden appearance at age ten, she hadn't even known he had a brother.

Questa was the only other assassin left from the old days. He and Belle received their mutate gifts from Candra together, and were the last assassins to do so. Shortly afterwards, Belle had been gravely wounded, and Remy defied the demi-goddess to heal his old lover. Now the Assassins Guild resorted to recruiting mutants like Diablo and Zubovsky. They joined two years ago after international notoriety for hunting and dispatching war criminals scattered across South America. Since then, they'd done little – except for a brief _ménage a trois_ with Marie. God only knew what _that_ situation might've escaladed into without Belle's intervention. It was the only time Marie had displayed poor judgment, and the disappointment stung.

Finally, Belle employed Arnie McLaren. Officially an "associate", Arnie was trusted less than loose-lipped Johnny Sanchez and worked mercilessly. Both men were working off debts owed to the Guild, but Johnny had always been honest about his inability to pay, while Arnie was not. As a result, Johnny got a stage to help bring in customers, and Arnie got to clean toilets.

"How was Milwaukee?" Marie asked, working a shaker hard enough to get tipped before the drink was even poured.

Unlike Pransu, Marie knew the truth.

"Good," answered Belle. "Accomplished a lot. Did I miss anything?"

"Neighbors downstairs got excited. Can't figure out why. Maybe their heat's on the fritz…"

Belle served four beers and cashed out a tab. By "neighbors downstairs", Marie implied the Thieves Guild: a rival and inferior gang. They fancied themselves the Assassins' equals, but in fact, were more like blood suckers on the bellies of sharks. Marie assumed the police were turning up the "heat", and maybe she wasn't wrong. Belle's ex, Remy, used to run with the Thieves, but had since joined the X-Men. No one knew for sure where his loyalty stood. Maybe _he_ was making them nervous.

"Well, the prodigal son's returned."

"Pardon?" Marie raised an eye brow and quickly settled it again.

She'd heard about Remy LeBeau, although he'd left before her arrival in the Big Easy. Mostly she knew the scandal. As a child of unknown origin, Remy had been adopted by the King of Thieves. He seduced half the city, including Belle, which their parents attempted to cover with a shotgun wedding. Julien, Belle's brother, challenged the rake and died at his hand.

By this account, Remy was no more than a wayward son, and she'd been wrong to give Marie that impression. Remy was also the youngest Master Thief in the world, earning his mark at a fresh seventeen. He'd been the hope of both Guilds, prophesized to bring them wealth and power. Yet behind this mythical persona was a self-loathing and lonely man. Secretly, Belle had known his declarations of love were true, and she wanted to marry him more than life. Killing Julien had been self-defense and cost Remy everything. His new bride didn't even get to say good-bye before he was exiled.

If Marie meant to lead the Assassins one day, she needed to know the _truth_.

Belle resolved to tell her, but not here and now, with a herd clamoring for drinks.

There was more hot gossip. Dillon Bluff knocked up his sister-in-law; the Michaux brothers stole a cop car (they didn't get far); and Nikki Potnick had fallen off the wagon again.

Once the riot cooled, Marie said: "I ain't splittin' my tips, so you better go do your job. Those bills won't pay themselves."

"You're right about one thing!" Belle grabbed the Mason jar packed with cash and retreated to the back office.

Gris-Gris followed and locked the door. Johnny's ruckus quieted to a distant pounding, and for the first time all night, Belle heard herself breathe.

Locked in the desk drawer was the hardcopy balance sheet. Belle split the leather cover and found information carefully tucked between the pages. Photographs. Maps of Wakanda. Newspaper clippings. Bank accounts.

Meanwhile, Gris-Gris counted the cash.

"When were you gonna tell me about LeBeau?" she asked.

The bills flapped like sparrow's wings in his grasp. "When have you ever listened to me? Told you years ago, a dog always shits in the same place."

She smiled and turned her mind to more important matters. This assignment had multiple targets: the royal family of Wakanda, a small but powerful African nation. There was the potential to net a huge profit and gain some international respect. The Guild needed both.

"Did Marie get this?"

Gris-Gris nodded. "She can leave tonight."

"Since when do _you_ decide who gets assignments? I'll do it. Let's see how well _she_ handles the books for a change. I want you ready to leave tomorrow."

If he was disappointed, he kept it to himself. This could've been an opportunity for Marie to earn global respect, but that would come in time. Meanwhile, Belle needed to keep her under control. A long trip would serve her nerves well, especially with LeBeau lurking around. Most importantly, this job needed to succeed. Thanks to drones and advanced cyber technology, personal elimination was an endangered occupation. When the need arose, there was always a sect closer and asking less money. Belle had been keeping them afloat with black widows. Favors like "Milwaukee" and McLaren further drained their finite funds. No more. A political assassination was just what they needed.

.

 **Chapter Two  
** _"If a thief be found breaking up, and be smitten that he die, there shall no blood be shed for him."  
~Exodus 22:2_

Just before the bar closed at dawn, Belle invited Remy to breakfast.

She was always reckless before a big job.

What began as intense flirtation had grown into fevered kisses. Now they were back at her house – his faux-concern a slippery slope inside – and she'd barely shut the door before throwing him at it. There she had pinned him with hot kisses on his face and neck. Her hands pulled his hair and her teeth pinched his skin. Always too rough. His own hands ripped at her clothes but then retreated, threatened to hurt but always backed down.

Finally, he grabbed her hair by the roots and forced her to be still. He was so close, and she was so willing. It would all be so easy…

"Belle," he panted, "What're we doin'?"

"Right now, Remy, I'm markin' your beautiful neck…"

His smothered desire groaned in protest. "I mean _us_. What're we doin'?"

"Ten years ago I couldn't _make_ you talk about 'us'. Now it's all you want?"

"I don't wanna hurt you again."

"So don't."

"I don't wanna _get_ hurt, either."

She nuzzled into his neck, ripping out her own hair to do so. Her voice vibrated through his entire body as she purred, "I'll be gentle, cher, if that's what you want."

God knew it wasn't. He tore her clothes off so hard that she tripped and pulled him down with her. When he landed bodily atop her, her joints cringed and he didn't apologize. Instead, he pinned her hands above her head and intended to kiss her exquisitely enough to snap her spine. She had plans of her own and sunk her teeth into the warm, soft skin around his jugular. Like a kitten, he went weak, and she used her thighs to maneuver into the superior position. His belt opened and then his pants, his desire thwarting everything else.

This was a bad idea. They'd traveled this road once already: ex-spouses with benefits. Their coming together was unparalleled ecstasy, but the inevitable disjoining was like ripping a star in half. He couldn't live without her, and she couldn't refuse him.

Fierce foreplay temporarily softened into something tender, both of them slowly dissolving into puddles of rapture as their bodies joined together. It was water after the desert, aloe after the burn. For a moment, they were content. Then Belle lay over him and began taking what she needed. The pleasure in being used was too much too soon, so he fought back. She loved it. This wasn't the play-bondage Rogue toyed with, but then, she'd been strong enough to break any chain and take any blow. With Belle, the strikes counted. What sent shivers up her tonight would feel differently tomorrow, but those wounds wouldn't be remembered. It was the inevitable disappointment afterwards that would haunt her.

He pulled her knees over his shoulders and tested her depths. His member kissed the entrance of her womb, raw and unguarded. She cried out as if in pain, but a moment later, braced her hands above her head and met him thrust for thrust. He'd forgotten little things like the way her hair spilled around her face like a halo, and the way her chest flushed when she was excited. Her violet eyes fluttered unfocused. Why could she not look at him? Did she imagine he was someone else?

They were never _truly_ intimate, if he could be honest enough to admit it. Everywhere he went, he carried the ghost of Rogue with him. He had once carried Belle this way, and it broke his heart that he couldn't recall those feelings. This was a pale imitation of what they once shared. Just like trapped spirits repeat their living habits, Remy yearned to relive their love. But it was no longer true.

She groaned in frustration and pushed him back.

"Where's your head, lover?" she asked, crawling impatiently in his lap.

Her body impaled on his, but always came short. Only when he moved against her did she reach satisfaction. He watched her face melt from frustration into pleasure and back to anger.

"You're enjoyin' this, aren't you?"

"That's kinda the point."

Mewling helplessly, she finally said what she wanted: "Fuck me, Remy."

He bent her over and obligingly pushed her head into the floor. Beating out all his frustrations almost broke her hips, but she spread her thighs and welcomed all of him. She was so elated that her sex wept down her parted legs and splashed over him. She was begging for more when he had no more to give. Feeling his climax drawing close very quickly, he mercilessly twisted her exposed pearl. With a yelp to wake the neighbors, her spine arched back and took the last of his performance.

As the storm of desire passed, they settled sweetly into the afterglow. The smell of sex and sweat permeated the air. Gentle fingers and lips inspected emerging bruises. Soft voices almost apologized for the damage, but they weren't sorry. Not yet.

.::.

Under the alias Isabella LeBeau, Belle entered the African nation of Wakanda. Gris-Gris wasn't far behind, registered as Thaddeus Martinez. Disguised as relief workers, the assassins joined their charity in the airport lobby. These people weren't the wide-eyed college students Belle had expected, but hardened, unarmed soldiers aged beyond their natural years. She fit right in.

The airport and surrounding parts of Wakanda surprised Belle, too. She'd visited African countries before and other than the flag colors, they all seemed alike: no air conditioner, few white people, and fierce competition. Entering Wakanda was like walking into Oz. The streets were clean, the modern buildings were cool inside, and the people were polite. Lush, green grass and native trees filled the areas between cement and stone, helping to cool the air. This focus on environment was – in Belle's experience – rare even in wealthy nations.

Half a dozen charity workers filed into two mini-vans and started towards the Turkana-Wakanda border. The journey took half a day, during which they changed vehicles twice. Finally, they set off all together in a decrepit military truck. Two people rode up front. Belle, Gris-Gris, and the others piled in the back with the supplies: grain, clean water, and medical supplies. The flat bed was enclosed, but Belle could still see the world passing by. Shinny imported cars rode in separate lanes from bicyclists. Holographic advertisements decorated the highway. Off in the distance, Belle heard the rumble of an afternoon thunderstorm.

"It's like clockwork," said Dr. Meadows, "Every afternoon at two, Queen Ororo sends rain. Wakanda uses it to rest."

Belle needed to fain interest. Between Gris-Gris's weak conversational skills and her ignorance, they were going to attract the wrong sort of attention. She decided anger would be appropriate.

"She can't spare a cloud for Turkana?"

Dr. Meadows laughed dryly. "The King's adopted a neutral stance on Turkana. Until they can give something to his country or threaten his resources, all those refugees sleeping on his border might as well be ghosts."

"They're supposed to be _heroes_. They can't pretend this war doesn't exist."

The road worsened as they neared the border. Belle pretended it didn't bother her, but the pot holes came suddenly and launched her head against the wall repeatedly. Dr. Meadows told Belle to brace against the opposing wall with her feet. Her heels sat nicely in a groove and kept her from a concussion.

"X-Men, Avengers, Fantastic Four… They only pick battles that matter to _them_ ," said the doctor. "Poor Turkanian villagers being slaughtered for their religion don't mean a hill of beans to demi-gods in latex."

The truck braked harshly and Belle heard other vehicles approaching.

"Everyone stay put," said Clark. "It's just the border control."

Three vehicles came to screeching stops and voices shouted. Belle couldn't understand the words. The driver and navigator, who'd been riding in the cab, shouted back at the border control. They sounded angry and for once, Belle feared for her safety. A semi-automatic fired into the air and the two men were forcibly taken from the truck. More shouting. A moment later, a semi-automatic fired carelessly at their chests. Belle knew the charity workers had been killed because the shouting stopped.

No one dared breathe.

Gris-Gris signaled for the veteran workers to hide, but they were too frightened to move. Belle moved as quickly as she could to the hatch and braced herself there. When they opened the door, she rode with it, and hid on the ceiling. Bandits poured in like ants, firing immediately on Clark and Dr. Meadows, who had their hands raised in surrender. The other two were cut down next. Gris-Gris leapt from the shadows and snatched the nearest gun. Using its operator as a human shield, he opened fire on the others. Belle swung down feet first and kicked one man into another. Turning to the opened hatch, she fired plasma beams indiscriminately. The attackers emptied their weapons on her astral shield and then retreated to their jeeps. She followed and burned them alive in a single, sweeping beam.

Gris-Gris slowly caught up with her. He was putting a bullet in every head, leaving no witnesses. When he came to the last man, his AK-47 was out of rounds. Rather than waste time fetching a full clip, Gris-Gris beat in his face.

Meanwhile, Belle watched the horizon.

No back-up coming.

The bandits had expected an unarmed caravan: an easy target. Would anyone come after them? By the time they were missed, Belle and Gris-Gris would be long gone, but without a navigator or bribe for the border patrol, they wouldn't get far.

" _Mais_ , that went well," said Gris-Gris. "Now what?"

.::.

Night had long set when aid finally arrived. A white woman and a black man, both American strangers, came under a Wakandian flag. The desperate refugees drained the supplies, but the strangers promised to bring more. Wakanda wanted to help its neighbor, they said. King T'Challa was a kind and generous man who had heard the cries of the poor and could no longer look away.

Such hopeful rumors spread across the camp like lightning. The poor were elated. The wealthy warlords were frightened. They didn't want King T'Challa's help and knew how to send that message.

"It's not safe for you to stay the night," Belle had been warned. "You should drive back tonight."

She insisted that she and Gris-Gris were safe and exhausted. They would stay the night in Turkana and head back the next morning.

Unassisted, they set up the late Dr. Meadows's tent. Belle eyed the naked children and skeletal women with contempt. They'd been too eager to take and now had nothing to give. Families lay defeated around their tiny, make-shift homes, drawing circles in the sand and picking their teeth. They couldn't even spare a glance at the struggling "relief workers". She understood how T'Challa despised these people and wondered how anyone could pity them.

Inside the dark tent, Gris-Gris whistled while sharpening a hunting knife he'd taken off a dead bandit. Belle noisily devoured a packet of crackers and bottle of Gatorade. This place was so empty that she feared her food would vanish.

The stars appeared, brighter than she'd ever seen them; and the temperature dropped below freezing. But the camp never slept. The omnipresent sound of human life was maddening. Coughing, weeping, pissing, shouting – all the time! It only grew worse as they huddled closer together, fearing an army or lion or thug might kill them for leaving the safety of the herd. The smell of the walking dead came not from neglected hygiene, but from the rot of their damned souls.

Less than fifty miles away, Wakanda celebrated a century of independence.

Shortly after midnight, footfalls raced for the tent. She and Gris-Gris bolted upright. They had been waiting on an attack, but Belle's instinct stopped her from assaulting the assailant. Moments later, they heard a woman cry, "Doc-tor! Doc-tor!"

"No doctor here," Gris-Gris growled through the door. "Move away."

"Doc-tory, please! She will die!"

Belle looked at him and shrugged. "If she's already dying, then we can ease her along."

He sheathed the blade at his belt and they followed the woman to a tent too small for Gris-Gris to enter. The woman opened the "door" and waved for Belle to go inside, but there wasn't enough room for three people.

Belle took the knife, hunched over, and carefully entered the tent. The powerful smell told her everything: blood, sex, urine, and now decay. She could only detect the outline of a young woman, left alone in the dark. She called to the messenger, but Gris-Gris said the woman had already left.

Belle told her soothingly, "If you tell me your name, I'll pray for you."

"P-please…" Her voice sounded like a tiny branch scratching a window pane: barely there and then gone again.

"Rest, child. All your sufferings are at an end."

Belle softly closed the girl's eyes and ended her tragic life with a swift thrust. If God knew Isabella LeBeau was really Bella Donna Boudreaux and knew her apart from all the other Belle Boudreauxs who came before, He would know a nameless African girl from all the rest, too. Maybe as Belle prayed for her, she would pray for Belle. God had blessed her with the gift of death, which was an important part of life and no less sacred. So often, her gift was compromised in ways the Lord never intended. But ending misery without end was His plan for her life. For a moment, Belle had put a right in the world.

The girl's body stirred. This was no nerve twitch, it was _life_!

"Gris! A light!" she shouted, stumbling out.

He provided a match and she carefully returned to the tent.

There, resting at the girl's breast, was a baby. Wrapped in filthy rags, lying in its own waste, starving to death. So young it might have been born here. It only stirred when its mother's blood gushed in its face, but the child was too weak to even cry out.

Instinctively, she snatched up the baby and wiped its face clean. It was the ugliest thing she'd ever seen: black, bony limbs, and blind, bug-like eyes. Its mouth was a permanent concave, perpetually open for food that never came and bruised from sucking. The sight struck at her heart, and she determined this was also the Lord's calling. He'd sustained that woman long enough for Belle to arrive, and delivered this child to her care.

She heard Gris-Gris curse behind her.

"Give it to me," he said.

"No."

There was no time to talk. While Belle had been about the Lord's business, a small riot erupted around their truck. The reckless firing of a semi-automatic sprayed into the air, echoed by soft screams. Looters who'd been stripping the vehicle for scraps fled and a proud warlord circled his prize. After admiring his conquest, he shouted at a henchman, who threw a Molotov cocktail through the window. It burst into flames. Then he set his sights on the tent, shouting: "Turkana has no king!" More bombs were lobbed at the tent and it joined the flames.

A pain crept into Belle's temples and she suddenly regretted taking this job from Marie.

"You need to find cover," Gris-Gris pushed her into a nearby tent.

They immediately stepped on a family, sleeping together like a litter of kittens. They shuffled away, all but one, and Belle realized it was a corpse. When the herd realized one of their own had died, they set about wailing and rocking like hysterical beasts. Desperate to protect their cover, Gris-Gris bought their silence with a packet of crackers, which they devoured. The man took most of them for himself, leaving crumbs for the two women and three children. Belle showed them the baby and asked for help. They looked at the tiny child as they had looked at her truck, and she pulled it close again.

"It is unclean!" said one of the women. "Punishment for her sin!"

"Leave it for the grave keeper," the man said. "He takes the dead and nearly dead. Let her sin follow her to the afterlife."

"He's not taking this one," said Belle.

Gris-Gris leaned in and whispered, "Stay the course. Are you going to save them all?"

She looked at the three little children and their mothers. Hopeless black eyes watched her with unnamed yearning. In the end, they were all damned, and their only reprieve would be death.

' _Stay the course,'_ Gris-Gris had said. He was right; they had a job to do. The plan was to flush out the anti-Wakandian warlords running the camp and determine who was financing them. Belle suspected members of the Wakandian monarchy were responsible, and if the money led to them, the money would take responsibility for their deaths. She didn't want to arouse the king's suspicion to a conspiracy against his life, but more importantly, she didn't know _how_ to kill him. She hoped his family might provide insight.

No part of that plan allowed for a deathly-ill baby. But maybe it could.

"We've gotta move. _Tonight_. This baby needs food, and we know where to find it."

His eyes flared defiance, but he obeyed.

Flashing the blade, she told the man, "If the baby dies, you die. Keep it alive and I'll get you into Wakanda."

Most of the night guards were children. Adolescent boys stood at the four points and at the jeep, clutching their AK-47s with pride. The henchmen responsible for destroying the truck and tent were out of sight: possibly inside with the warlord. His dwelling was the best the camp had to offer. It was easily large enough for twelve people and would withstand a sand storm. The "door" and "window" were merely openings between slabs of aluminum sheets, and through the gauze curtain Belle could see candle flames and shadows.

"Six," Gris-Gris said. "Maybe more."

"There were twice as many earlier."

"They might be inside. Might not. Hard to tell… I say we block the door and scorch the place."

"Your methods are agreeable but the timing is not. We need names."

There was only one way in, and it included killing children and storming an unknown building with an unknown number of assailants. If others were elsewhere in the camp, they would hear the ruckus and flank the infiltrators. The warlord might be killed in the fight, defeating their entire mission.

Gris-Gris seemed to follow her thoughts and said: "You could make _more_ promises you can't deliver on. See if they'll buy your dreams, too."

" _Dreams!_ You lovely lamb! Why didn't you offer earlier?"

"Because they're still armed. Scaring the shit of them-"

"Is what _you_ do best."

…

Hyena cackles grabbed the child-soldiers' attention. They readied their guns but couldn't pin point the sound. Their weapons jerked and fired recklessly. A chill ran down their spines as deadly laughter grew closer. Then reflective eyes pierced through the night and their hearts seized. These hyenas were the largest they'd ever seen and immune to bullets. As they ran to the safety of the shack, henchmen flew from their hive like angry bees. Hysteria gripped them immediately, and they fled the hut, which had somehow transformed into a pile of venomous snakes. But the warlord, who remained inside, saw the walls run red with blood and flames roared outside. Then the demons entered…

…

Gris-Gris cleaned the blood from his blade as Belle carried the dying baby into the shack. The family, awaiting their deliverance, was close behind.

"Was I right or was I right?" she said proudly, placing the baby on a cot.

Decades ago, the New Orleans' benefactress gifted Gris-Gris with the power to inflict hallucinations. He could draw out a person's worst nightmare and make it seem real. This form of warfare worked best in close quarters, since a frightened person was easier to manipulate than a terrified mob.

Belle was becoming impulsive and short-sighted. Her decision to push them ahead of schedule and care for seven souls could only result in failure. In many ways, she was still a child, believing her wishes had the power to grant themselves.

"What about _him_?" Gris-Gris asked about the once-proud warlord now cowering in fear.

"You know what to do," Belle replied. Stripping the baby, she realized it was a boy. She began cleaning him. His tiny legs were so weak and frail that she worried they were hollow.

"I could use some help!" Gris-Gris snapped.

Her burning eyes cut him down.

He chased away the children, who were kicking dust and shouting at the terrified villain, but the family stood firm to his bellowed threats. They would not leave. Frustrated, Gris-Gris turned his sights on his victim. His methods for gathering information made the refugees tremble and piss with fear, but still, they remained. The Assassins favored old-fashioned torture and combat over any special ability. Being mutates might discourage some clients, and keeping it secret was always an ace up the sleeve.

While Gris-Gris worked, Belle found water and a drinking straw. She eased a few droplets into the child's mouth, but it didn't drink. Then it started to choke.

One of the women dipped a rag into the water and gave it to the baby to suckle. Very slowly, his mouth began to work.

.::.

Sunrise over the Turkana-Wakanda border brought the scorching heat of hell. Child-soldiers and thugs wandered back to their castle, only to find their king gone. Across the desert, a family of six raced to the lush embrace of Wakanda as border control looked away. A battle-worn jeep sped over the sand dunes, carrying two mercenaries and a newborn into a war zone.

Belle was so ashamed that she couldn't meet Gris-Gris's eye. _A baby?_ What had possessed her? She should've left this child with the family in the camp.

Breaking the hostile silence was the former warlord, tied up and terrified in the trunk. He kept screeching and kicking the walls, but Gris-Gris couldn't possibly still have him enthralled… Could he?

"Alright," Belle finally said, "What's the matter with him? If you've broken his mind-"

"No. Dreaming… He thinks zombie babies are trying to cut off his face."

"With what? Their _teeth_?"

"Baby-sized blades, I suppose."

Their laughter rose in chorus and not for the first time, Belle thought Gris-Gris was the only person in the whole world who understood her. The baby in her arms gave a content sigh and she returned to the tedious task of getting fluids in him. Every moment, she feared he would slip silently into eternal sleep, and if that happened, she would regret taking him from his mother. He deserved to be buried with his family. But she wouldn't weep or mourn him. She didn't love this African orphan and didn't know why God gave him to her. It was merely a task, although an easier one than most in her life.

Gris-Gris eyed the babe with hate. "You can keep it."

"I wasn't waiting for your permission."

.::.

 _Wakanda  
_ The sun rose and set by Queen Ororo's beauty. This morning was no different, and she rose before her husband to greet the new day. Rich, jewel-colored fabrics adorned their most sacred room – a single room larger than most homes and reserved for their privacy. These vivid tapestries, luxurious mats, and seductive sheets paled as Ororo walked past them to the window. Her dark, bare skin was covered only by long white tresses spilling from her temple and over her back. She was as proud as the sun, and shone back as its equal.

T'Challa's desire to claim her was cut short by a messenger.

"Begging a thousand pardons, your majesties, but I have urgent news."

They quickly dressed and entered the visitor's sanctum, where the messenger prostrated himself. Ororo had never been comfortable with this level of humility and knelt before her husband to bring the man up. Meanwhile, the servants rushed to bring breakfast ahead of schedule.

"Speak, brother," she said.

Now the courier looked uncomfortable, either by the Queen's great kindness or her great presumption. Politically and physically, she was one of the most powerful women in the world, but she was not Wakandian. The nation welcomed her out of respect for their king, but that welcome was conditional. If she knew this, she never acted on it.

Lowering his eyes, the man said: "Great tragedy, your Highness. Your uncle S'yan and half-brother D'Ciggs were slain this morning. Nothing could grieve me more than delivering-"

T'Challa silenced him with a curse. "What happened?"

"A criminal… A warlord tried to blackmail them. Apparently, he failed and…"

Ororo broke in: "There are no warlords in Wakanda."

"They were in Turkana, your majesty."

The room fell silent, as if everyone present took a breath and held it in. Wakanda's stance on the Turkana civil war was firm. Even dead men weren't beyond the wrath of a spurned king.

"Where is the warlord now?" asked T'Challa.

"Dead. Your uncle and brother were –" he hesitated, "-much loved by their neighbors. When they heard the attack, they united against him."

T'Challa turned away and everyone collectively sighed. His wrath was coming slowly. Queen Ororo immediately thanked the messenger and turned away breakfast, saying they could not bear to eat while their kinsmen lay dead. In truth, she'd only met the men once, but this was proper etiquette. She ordered announcements and national symbols of mourning imposed. Before she left, T'Challa absently stroked her hand. It would be her only encouragement over the difficult weeks to come.

Half a country away, Belle finally took the baby to a hospital. She insisted that she was his mother, even though she couldn't provide a birthdate and struggled to give a name. She finally decided on Marius, after her father. Gris-Gris was so furious that he stormed out, but she got her name put on his birth certificate.

"He'll have to stay a week," the doctor said after an exam. "He needs fluids and antibiotics. I want to see him taking food on his own before we release him, but otherwise he looks good."

Belle hesitated. "You mean he's going to live?"

The doctor was an angry woman from North Africa: the sort to call the police on Belle, if the police bothered with stolen babies. She looked up to meet Belle's eye and said, "He's in surprisingly good condition considering his trauma. I'd say he's perfect, Momma."

The hook in her heart sank deeper, threatening to rip open a vein. This ugly little orphan was hers. He had her name and fighting spirit and she had the awkward duty of accepting him.

Outside descended a black cloud so low and massive that it seemed to swallow the whole nation. Fat, cool rain chased everyone indoors and to their televisions. This is how they heard the tragic news of S'yan and D'Ciggs, and they knew the rain hid the tears of the king. For days, the people talked of nothing else, and gathered at the palace in solidarity.

Ororo made certain the pilgrims were appreciated and cared for, but she wasn't the one they wanted. T'Challa disappeared for long hours day and night. He returned silent and withdrawn. No doubt, he was working to uncover and then conceal his family's activities in Turkana, but she resented being the one in the middle, despised by both sides. One advantage was handling the daily meetings without him, which gave her unprecedented power. She realized her husband's stance on Turkana had not been as firm as everyone believed. In fact, the country funded supplies and transportation for relief workers. One group, comprised mostly of Americans, hadn't returned as scheduled. Further investigation found the group had been attacked and two members were still missing.

Thaddeus Martinez and Isabella LeBeau.

Ororo tapped her chin for a moment and then requested a telephone. Violence in Turkana was a daily occurrence, but a massacre of charity workers, border marauders slaughtered and robbed, and a warlord demanding support from royal relatives was all very messy. A _LeBeau_ in the mix was too curious to ignore.

.

 **Chapter Three  
** _"You are to gather all the plunder of the town into the middle of the public square and completely burn the town and all its plunder as a whole burnt offering to the LORD your God. That town is to remain a ruin forever, never to be rebuilt,_ _and none of the condemned things are to be found in your hands. Then the LORD will turn from his fierce anger, will show you mercy, and will have compassion on you. He will increase your numbers, as he promised on oath to your ancestors-because you obey the LORD your God by keeping all his commands that I am giving you today and doing what is right in his eyes."  
~Deuteronomy 13:16-18_

Leaving Marius at the hospital provided Belle and Gris-Gris with enough time to finish the job. They needed to eliminate the remaining members faster than rumors of their deaths moved. S'yan and D'Ciggs's funerals would bring the royal family together, and if all went well, the Assassins would simply walk down the hall and cut them down like daisies.

Gris-Gris acquired a rented vehicle and new personas: now they were American journalists, covering the funeral. Belle dug around for intell on the palace and monarchs.

Queen Ororo was familiar to Belle as the X-Man "Storm". Although incredibly powerful, Belle knew she was a pacifist, and therefore a secondary threat. T'Challa and his sister, Shuri, were another matter. Both were intelligent, shrewd, and quick to assert their physical superiority. They had a younger brother, too, called "Hunter". Being so far from succession, Hunter escaped much of the attention. He'd spent most of his life in monasteries or on pilgrimages, but was still a skilled warrior. Of course, the monarchs also had many allies and bodyguards, and their palace was an impregnable fortress.

The one disadvantage, if it could be called so, was that the royal power wasn't inherent. Wakanda was the sole possessor of virbanium: an energy source which allowed the country to prosper while others lagged. The ruler was "elected" by the Panther God, who ran candidates through an annual challenge. For generations, the mantle bestowed mutated gifts to T'Challa's family.

What must that be like? To be indentured to such an unloving god?

Belle's benefactress required seven years devotion, and her gifts were hers to keep. It was more like earning a college degree than wearing a crown of smoke. And then there was her client: a man determined to tear down the Panther God's puppet. Thus far, the autocrat of Wakanda hadn't found the time to father a child, for which she was grateful. Like her, T'Challa would be the last of his line.

.::.

If T'Challa was good at anything, it was deception. He spared no expense burying his uncle and half-brother – honoring all the Wakandian traditions while entertaining foreign superhero celebrities.

"Behold my grief!" his actions proclaimed to the world.

Hunter side-stepped the show and found his room in the heart of the palace. His brother, the King, took his crown from their uncle, and D'Ciggs had been a firm contender. Hunter wasn't surprised some kin moved to Turkana. Better to be a king in a shack than a servant in a palace. But T'Challa would not be so understanding. He thought isolating and starving the civil war was the key to its undoing. Would he have them assassinated for disobedience? It was terribly convenient that their murderer had been murdered as well.

While the palace feasted in somber finery, Hunter prayed for guidance.

White Tiger answered: _"Man's power corrupts. By my will, you would never leave the land of your mother… But your father's gods have plans, too."_

" _I am your child,"_ he humbly replied.

Sorrow, deep and brown, engulfed White Tiger's eyes. _"No. Not yet. Not anymore."_

Hunter could only watch as the giant feline receded beyond human reach. Rage burned through his veins. Knowing he'd been forsaken by his patron deity, his soul chose a fiery death. So Black Panther wanted him? Black Panther wanted only one thing. Power. He bestowed great power and took it away. Hunter's desire for harmony and honor would never be achieved while the Panther called. His father's god demanded atonement for the family's sins. As long as his brother was king, he would never face justice.

Hunter prayed all day for the task to be lifted from him. If Black Panther wanted his mantle back, let _him_ take it. But that wasn't the nature of gods. They played with men's lives the way children play with toys. When the sun set again and the heart of a nation bled for its fallen sons, Hunter knew his life was forfeit.

His path was clear.

…

He watched Ororo brush out her snowy mane. A hairdresser stood by, hands patiently folded. The Queen wore a white nightgown. Somehow the national color of mourning made her appear positively radiant. Her dark, elegant neck craned to the right, exposing the sensitive pulse above her collar, practically begging to be kissed.

With haste, he dispatched of the guards outside her door and rushed in with only the hairdresser's gasp to announce him.

Ororo flashed a bolt of lightning before she recognized him.

"Gambit!" She half-laughed and half-snipped, like an indulgent sister. "Always so _dramatic_!"

" _Passionate_ , padnat. Cajuns are _passionate_! Not dramatic."

With a subtle gesture, she dismissed the hairdresser, who hesitated before leaving. It was a slight Ororo didn't miss, and she knew the palace would soon be aflame with rumors of a royal affair.

"Isabella LeBeau is one of Belle's aliases, and I'd wager Mr. Matinez is an Assassin, too," he said, leaning nonchalantly against her vanity. "I can tell you she _hates_ Africa. She'd never come here unless she was scared or desperate, which doesn't bode well for us."

"Thank you, Remy," she rested a hand over his. "You didn't have to come all this way just to tell me that."

"Buyin' a plane ticket's easier than makin' an international call," he lightly replied. "If Turkana militants are hiring foreign mercenaries, Wakanda's in trouble. Not only is this gonna drive down the market value, just think what kind of neighbors you'll have."

"Could you locate her?"

"Had better luck in N'awlins. Here, I don't exactly _fit in_. Locals seem immune to my natural charms and good looks."

She suggested a courier, and he made a disgusted sound.

"Can't chance BP puttin' Belle in his sights."

Ororo stood to her full height and thundered, "There is a man _somewhere_ in this palace who means to see my husband _dead_. I had _hoped_ to find an ally in Bella Donna. Now I learn that she is _here_ to murder my family! After everything she's done, why do you protect her?"

"You can take her out, but whoever hired her can hire someone else. And the next one you might not see comin'."

His voice and body language were relaxed, but his eyes were burning. She realized that he hadn't agreed to help for love of her, but for love of Belle. He was burning the candle at both ends, which was typical Gambit, and she'd have to balance this carefully to avoid getting scorched.

She forced herself not to sink back into her chair.

"Yes, of course… Thank you, Remy."

Ororo looked at her fingernails – polished and softly rounded with crisp cuticles. Queen's hands. If she wanted to remain a queen, these nails would have to get dirty.

"I will help you," she said firmly.

"Say again?"

"You are right. If we are to kill this beast, we must strike at its _heart_ , not its _weapons_. I forget myself. You require the aid of an X-Man, and here I am."

.::.

"You sure this is a good idea?" asked Reed.

T'Challa proudly laid the mantle of body-bearer over Reed's shoulders. "This is a great honor."

"Your family should grieve _together_. Hunter-"

"Has yet to show."

Building the funeral pyre was a time-honored tradition upheld by Wakandian men. As women weren't permitted, Hunter knew Shuri and Ororo would be elsewhere. This would give Hunter time to judge the sincerity of T'Challa's grief. Exposed to his countrymen's anguish, the King would either swallow or spew the emotion being fed him. He could not deceive them here. But upon arrival, Hunter found his role occupied by Mr. Fantastic, Reed Richards.

One word erupted from his throat: _"Blasphemy!"_

The work halted.

"Hunter," said T'Challa, "Get to work and be silent. I will not suffer any further disrespect."

"You sent them to their graves, didn't you?"

"Careful," he warned coldly.

"You don't deserve the Black Panther mantle. I relieve you of it and demand you answer for your crimes."

"Sorrow has driven my brother mad," the King told his bodyguards, ministers, and foreign friends. "He knows what happens to traitors here and welcomes death. We will forgive him _this once_."

"You don't have to explain anything!" Hunter replied, "These people already know you're a killer and gladly look away."

All his warnings came to a bloody end. T'Challa could see only red and hear only the sea. Every wound Hunter inflicted or suffered fed his fury. Did his brother think him below the law? Black Panther _was_ the law. He was the god and religion. He was _Wakanda_.

"Knock it off!" Reed shouted. His elastic arms snaked between the brothers.

Black Panther leapt over his reach and Hunter slid under. When their claws reconnected, there was a blinding, deafening clash, as if Queen Ororo had intervened. But the sky was clear. The fatal blow had come from T'Challa, who stood over his brother. A mere flash of Black Panther's power could vanquish any enemy. Indeed, it had.

"Get a healer!" commanded the outsider.

The Interior Minister sadly shook his head, "He is dead."

T'Challa fell to his knees and gathered Hunter in his arms. Half of his face had been torn away and still bled. The other half was quickly losing color and T'Challa remembered Hunter as an infant, when his face was pale and alive. A helpless, lost cry tore through the night and faded into the distant wasteland. The King carried his slain brother into the darkness – searching for that baby. Slowly, at first, but soon he was sprinting. Reed wanted to stop him and remind him it had been an accident before he hurt himself. But the ministers held him back, too afraid of their lord's wrath to protect him.

"Let him find himself again," they advised, and he conceded.

As soon as the King's shadow vanished, the Exterior Minister attacked Reed.

" _You!_ If _you_ had not been here, our Prince would still be alive!"

"Hold on! You know I didn't have anything to do with this!"

"No, Mr. Richards," said a more serene man. "He is correct. Too long Wakanda has been divided between progressives and those stuck in the past. The autocracy lived on the _lie_ of _purity_! A lie that drove our Prince mad and destroyed him!"

"David, mind yourself." Warned the minister.

"Lies cultivated by _you_ , Mr. Abdullah."

A machete slice through the air and planted in Abdullah's neck. Instant pandemonium reigned. Divides - which had been invisible moments before - crashed through reality as men fled and hunted each other. Mr. Fantastic pushed through his shock to discover another terrifying revelation: his superpowers negated. Hard flesh rammed his temple and left him stunned. He was trampled in the rampage.

David Osuwu turned and quickly strode towards the palace. How often had they planned this? In the heat of battle, would his men remember their orders? He didn't like spinning so many wheels – many of them unknown to him – the failure of any one could bring down the entire system. _Decades_ of his life hung in the balance of what happened tonight.

Rooftop guards were missing. Excellent.

He walked through the front doors. The palace was dark: the power cut. Most of the guards had been bought, but those closest to the royal family, the _dora milaje_ , were unapproachable. In the lobby and through the halls, they coughed and gagged against the poison. One had somehow eluded her dose, and was fighting off a masked assailant.

David calmly walked past, comforted by the chaos. He went up the double grand stair-case, as he had every day for fifteen years, and felt a sense of accomplishment. Every door opened, and he quickly reached the room of Shuri, sister of the King. Her door was barred, not locked, and inside he could hear a struggle. Slowly, to avoid detection, he pushed the door open. A fallen dresser blocked his entry, and loudly scraped the wooden floor. He heard broken glass pop, further announcing his presence, but the women inside were occupied with each other. Shuri, slender and fierce, rolled across the floor and threw a blade at her assailant. The assassin was incredibly tall for a woman: forged and branded in combat. The knife bit flesh from her shoulder, adding to the red welts and cuts already displayed. Unflinching, she pounced on the princess and, realizing she was out of weapons, sunk her teeth into Shuri's soft neck.

The princess looked to him and cried: "David!"

As a boy, he'd witnessed a lion devour a gazelle. The memory of light fading from the prey's eyes, the sound of ripping flesh, the smell of blood smeared and discarded, all came back to him. He was both terrified and enthralled.

Shuri had obviously put up a better fight than the gazelle, but he'd expect nothing less from a daughter of warriors. Not only was her room destroyed, but her assassin was badly wounded.

When she stood and looked at him, crimson covering all but her blue eyes lagging with fatigue, he was not afraid. She was prettier than he'd expected. Smooth, yellow hair had been ripped and hazardously eschewed a handsome face with a modest nose. Her white skin had turned pink under the African sun. Despite her size and beneath her heavy gear, he recognized feminine elegance. She could just as easily kill wearing an evening gown.

"It is alright," he said, showing his hands in surrender. "Bella Donna."

"Who the hell are you?"

"My name is David Osuwu. I will soon be crowned King of Wakanda, and you are my employee." He looked at Shuri and then approached Belle. "You are worth every penny."

Her head was swimming. Direct contact with clients was forbidden, and she considered killing him for her own protection. But he held her purse strings and she was tired. She'd seen more death in the last three days than the rest of her life. Maybe these people deserved a short life, maybe they didn't; she didn't care either way. But this man was different. His oddly-slanted forehead brought out his proud and fierce eyes. Above a pristine chin, his wise mouth smiled lightly. He took joy in destruction. Something about him struck her, and she felt both weightless and smothered. Perhaps it was the exhaustion and blood loss, but the longer she looked into his eyes, the more important he appeared. On her death bed, she would recall his face as vividly with feelings as strong.

"Thanks, but you're in my way," said Belle, "I have to find Ororo before her husband returns."

"He will not be returning. And I do not know where the Queen is, but if she were here, she would already be dead."

Belle silently questioned him.

He motioned for her to step into the hallway. Together they entered the belly of the palace, where carnage had taken place. Blood soaked into the carpets, between the floor boards, and splattered across the walls. Bodies lay dead.

"You are not one," he told her, "You are one of many."

A bomb detonated, suddenly swallowing the bodies and blood-soaked room in flames. The jolt knocked Belle off her feet and she felt the reverberation in her chest.

.::.

Since it was night, the Office of Exterior Travel was closed. But a single man maintained a desk with a telephone, as was required, reading a worn novel by lamplight. A screaming buzzer pierced through his skull, and he replied back irritably.

"Who's there?"

A pause.

Then a woman answered. "Ororo Iquadi T'Challa Komos Wakandas."

He retrieved a gun from his desk drawer and admitted the visitor into a vacant, sterile lobby, where he could view her via security camera. The woman indeed resembled the Queen, although a loose head scarf obscured her infamous snowy hair. She had a man in her company. He was white and anxious, but appeared unarmed.

If this was an imposter, the guard could lose his job.

"What do you want?" he asked through the intercom.

"Information," she spoke directly to the camera. "I'm looking for a woman who I believe poses a threat to our national security."

"All your detectives on holiday?" he asked.

She looked at her companion and then back at the camera. "If someone threatens my people, I will deal with them directly. Please, unlock the door or I shall do it for you."

There was a long pause and finally the buzzer admitted their entrance.

Ororo led Remy down a dim and narrow hallway. The security guard waited at the other end, and by now had gotten a good look at their faces. This wasn't the way Remy worked.

"Could've been over the gate and gone by now with nobody the wiser."

"This is my home," she replied. "We are not thieves here."

She embraced the security guard, kissed his cheek, and then showed him a photograph. Belle's description was so unusual that he would've remembered without a picture, but Ororo didn't want to seem too familiar with a mercenary.

"Isabella LeBeau. She arrived and entered Turkana four days ago. Did she ever return?"

Stunned silent, he carried the picture back to his desk and logged onto the computer.

"It would've been better if you'd come during working hours. My boss could tell you who's been working the border, give you their names. You could speak with them."

"Wakanda's policy for admitting _anyone_ from Turkana is _exceedingly_ strict. I trust your records comply."

His face burned. The next several tense minutes were filled with the frantic thunder of keys. Remy was beginning to suspect this was a dead-end when the man finally spoke.

" _Eureka!_ She was given priority entry through Itoe. The record says she required immediate medical care."

Ororo's voice lowered. "A foreigner returns from a war-zone seriously wounded, and no one makes an investigation?"

He knew Itoe was one of the weaker check points, and they might have forged the records just to avoid checking her documents. This was especially likely since she was beautiful and in trouble. Once she was past border control, she was someone else's problem. But he didn't dare tell the Queen this. Luckily, her companion spoke up, so he didn't have to reply.

"Does it say how she was hurt?"

"No, sir."

"Where'd she go?"

'Assuming she was really hurt?' he thought, but said: "The closest hospital is St. Bartholomew's. Would you like their number?"

"No, thank you," said Ororo. "You're to tell no one-"

Her voice was cut off by an explosion and the heavy collapse of a building. The sound was so distant that Remy momentarily forgot to worry. Then debris rained down, as heavy as hail and bright as fire. Ororo's blue eyes turned white and she flew down the hall as if a string had been snapped and reeled her back. Remy was about to follow when the phone rang. A chill of foreboding slipped down his spine and planted him to the floor.

"Yes?" The security guard answered. After a moment, he glanced at Remy and then quickly looked away. "But they already know!"

Every brain cell screamed for Remy to run, but he didn't move before the guard drew his gun. The .357 was loaded and aimed, but Remy had been shot at many times and been threatened many more. He knew the difference.

"You're not a killer," he gently reminded the nervous guard. "Just put that down."

Cold sweat beaded on his pale skin. His nostrils flared. _"But they already know!"_

His hands shook so badly that he pulled the trigger accidently. The round struck Remy's temple and embedded in the door jam.

.::.

Belle lay on a grassy knoll beneath a spring sun. Birds and bugs sang in the bayou. A cool breeze shuffled her cotton dress, lifting the hem just enough to kiss her thighs. Above her was a sky of purest blue, holding puffy white clouds and black specks of fowl. Sunlight poured over her eye lids, warming what the wind cooled.

" _L'Enfer!"_

Belle blinked and sat up.

"Remy!?"

He was younger than he'd been a week ago and dressed comfortably. A fishing pole rested on his shoulder, which she imagined using to beat his strong, rugged body.

"I thought this was heaven," he grinned, "But you're over-dressed."

"It _was_ heaven till _you_ showed up! And wouldn't you be expecting _Rogue_ instead of your _ex_?"

He sat beside her, his body heat rolling down her arm. "Longest she and I could stand each other was four months. Expect to be here longer than that." He leaned so close she could see each eye lash. "'Sides, everyone knows you go home when you die."

She exhaled. "Remy… You need to get Storm out of Wakanda."

"Why? What's happening?"

She shook her head. Years of experience warned her that Remy would do exactly what he was told _not_ to, but she had to try.

"This ain't your business. Trust me, you don't wanna get involved."

"If it concerns Storm, then it concerns me."

"Don't think you can out-smart him. He's more powerful, better connected, and more ruthless. When the X-Men leave, _he_ will still be there. You can't win."

He gripped her arm. "Who?"

"Are you listening? Get. Her. Out!"

"Why did you take an assignment you couldn't complete?"

Her heart stopped beating. Too late, she realized this man was an imposter.

.::.

Debris was still falling when Ororo returned home. The modern and immaculate estate where she planned to raise her children now looked like a conquered medieval castle. Ash floated in the breeze, whipping up the flames against her wishes. She felt the heat and wind as elements beyond her reach. What had happened to her powers?

No one could say and no one looked to her for instruction. She climbed higher to the rooms of power, where walls barely held together. The loss was felt before it was seen: souls ripped away along with the roof and windows. She approached Princess Shuri's chamber and found her buried in broken furniture, her neck torn open. The princess had been her brother's harshest critic and fiercest defender. When Ororo joined the family, she'd graciously stepped away from the throne to give the new queen a chance to shine. The opportunity and sacrifice had been in vain. Shuri's loyalty and Ororo's weakness had damned them all.

 _This will kill T'Challa,_ Ororo thought.

"Storm!"

Olivier Osuwu, the Defense Minister, had entered Shuri's quarters.

"My apologies," he said, "I mean, Your Majesty-"

"What happened, Olivier? Where's T'Challa?"

"Turkana launched an air strike."

" _What?_ With _whose_ weapons? Why would they retreat from _victory_? T'Challa-"

"Is rumored to be dead. I – I'm sorry, but there's no time for delicacy. He murdered Prince Hunter moments before the attack."

" _Impossible."_

"We have to evacuate. This floor's about to collapse."

Unbeknownst to Storm, she stood immobile, staring at Shuri's corpse. She was unaware of Olivier and Ursule Osuwu standing nearby, fabricating the illusion of her activities.

"Shall I walk her off the balcony?"

"No," Olivier said. "She poses no immediate threat. Her death sentence must come from father. Keep her occupied."

.

 **Chapter Four  
** _"I will fill your mountains with the slain; those killed by the sword will fall on your hills and in your valleys and in all your ravines. I will make you desolate forever; your towns will not be inhabited. Then you will know that I am the LORD."  
~Ezekiel 35:8-9_

"Happy now?" said an exasperated Reed Richards.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Fantastic," David Osuwu answered, lowering the gun from some poor girl's head. Sobbing, she stumbled out of the room.

Reed had initially refused to repair the machine capable of negating superhuman powers. Osuwu reminded him of his family and what happens to a young widow with beautiful young children. To his credit, Reed didn't buckle. It was desperation that drove Osuwu to threaten the life of a maid, and Reed finally relented. Ironically, the machine had formerly belonged to T'Challa, who used it to de-power Reed and his family. The ploy used to prove his worthiness as king would also make him worthless.

"You're not going to kill me?" asked Richards.

"No, that will not do. I am neither a genius nor a superhero. If I am going to succeed, I must surround myself with superior minds. And if I kill you, who will repair the machine in the future?"

"Glad to know what I'm worth."

Across the room, Belle sat on the floor while a woman tended her wounds. Broken glass was extracted from her back and the cut on her shoulder was stitched. She was too tired to flinch. Soon, her whole body burned. Her nurse was a frail, dark-skinned woman with angry eyes and rough hands that could do serious damage, even with a needle. Belle decided she had suffered enough at the hands of angry African women and pulled away.

"I have to find T'Challa-"

David back-handed her across the face. She stumbled, caught herself, and slowly righted herself again.

"You see?" he said calmly. "You are no good now."

Her blood boiled. "You're just going to _let him leave?_ Do you have any idea what sort of power he has? The Avengers, the X-Men-"

"This is not their concern."

"They'll _make_ it their concern! They could sever this whole damn country and drown it at sea!"

"They _could_ , but they will not. Not with four million innocent souls at stake. Soon, the Black Panther mantle will be mine, and a new parliament will recognize me as the new monarch."

"' _Soon'_ can't be _soon_ enough! Do what you _have_ to, and so willI!" She stormed from the room.

In the siege, she'd lost track of Gris-Gris. Last she could recall, he'd gone to dispatch the _dora milaje_ while she eliminated the princess. The assassination didn't go as smoothly as she'd planned, although Shuri resorted to her superhuman abilities first and exposed her weaknesses. She'd clearly relied on these gifts all her life, using them to supplement core strength and endurance. Then something happened – Belle now knew the machine had been activated – and suddenly the princess was weak. That, along with David Osuwu's unexpected audience, had given Belle the upper hand. If Gris-Gris had been in the same situation – dependent on his scare tactics – he might also be dead.

Outside, the dead were being buried in mass graves. She ran down the rows before they were pushed in, searching for his trademark dreadlocks.

A corpse with a grey and rigid face caught her eye. An assassin named Scalphunter, who was an old friend of Remy's.

' _You are one of many',_ David had said.

At the time, she'd had no chance to question him. Now she saw him watching her from a window and stormed back inside. She wouldn't stand to be a man's pawn.

The palace was more like a hive now, with people coming and going as they pleased. There was no security, although a few select people moved with purpose. People like her. How had she missed it before? A new day dawned through the broken windows, signaling the end of an era. The first day of her life without Gris-Gris.

David was still where she'd left him. He was like a river, which never seemed to move, but flowed endlessly into larger and more powerful things. Meanwhile, she moved frantically to no purpose.

Infuriated, she kicked open the door to the office.

" _Where is he?"_

"I assume you mean your companion? What do you call him? Gris-Gris?"

She grabbed his collar and shouted, _"Where is he?!"_

"Truly, I do not know. Now please, stop this behavior. It is most unbecoming."

"No, David," Belle's nurse closed the distance between them. "Lies will not serve your purpose here…" To Belle, she said: "Your man has gone to eliminate the former queen. He says she has a _spy_ against you. Does she?"

Belle walked away again, but the woman grabbed her wrist in a steel grip.

"The man from your dream. The one you warned to _spare_ her. We've been watching him. He was her spy, and a bad one. If you want to _save_ him, help my husband depose her."

Belle shook off Mrs. Osuwu's grasp as she realized other ties had already been cast. Somewhere in this godforsaken land, Gris-Gris was trying to protect her and Remy needed her protection. Marius waited for her return. She couldn't leave without them, but her pale, pink face was like walking around with a neon sign. If, by some miracle, she managed to escape with them, David Osuwu knew who she was; the X-Men knew how to find her; and now Mr. Fantastic knew of her involvement. There were no more shadows for her to hide in. Being so exposed made her frantic. She had just one impulse: run.

" _Clearly_ , there's been a mistake," she said, "You didn't hire a _bodyguard_ , dip-shit. And right now, you're standing between me and my mark, which means _you_ need to move."

A man came running into the room, addressing David as "Father". His diverted attention allowed for Belle to pull away, but Mrs. Osuwu snatched her with her angry eyes and hissed: "Stay! Stupid woman, he will _kill_ you!"

The young man, Isaie, was explaining that fractions of the army were rebelling. Some of the generals who supported Osuwu had been killed by their loyal subordinates, and some of Osuwu's soldiers had been killed by loyal generals. By now, the military understood a royal coup was unfolding and civil war was imminent. Osuwu needed to seize control swiftly and completely. In response, David ordered the body of the late princess displayed by the world's media. He wanted the world to "understand" that the Wakandian royals had been killed or fled during an attack by Turkana militants, and that David Osuwu was holding the country together. He prepared to leave, telling Reed that he would be accompanying the new king.

Osuwu and his son stood with their backs to the most lethal woman in the world. If she killed them, she could escape.

David seemed to feel her thoughts and turned to her.

"Until I have the army's support, I cannot issue a royal decree. But I declare Ororo Iqadi T'Challa to be an enemy of Wakanda. She is condemned to death and the sentence is to be executed immediately. She waits downstairs. I _trust_ this is an assignment you _intend to complete_."

Reed made a pitiful attack on David and was quickly subdued.

In the commotion, Belle finally made her escape. No one pursued her. She would either complete her assignment or another professional would be sent to deal with her.

.::.

Remy jerked and pain ripped through his skull. Relaxing again, his head throbbed a stern warning. The worst pain came from his right temple, where he remembered getting shot. It hadn't hurt then, but as adrenaline wore off the agony of healing set in. The sooner he got moving, the better he'd be. Peeking, he saw a dim, scarcely decorated bedroom. A woman immediately brought him a bitter broth the color of milk. He tried pushing it away, but he was weaker than he was frightened.

A man – the shooter – entered and kneeled beside the bed.

"Praise God! I was afraid I had killed you!"

"Shot to the head will do that," Remy said coldly.

"Be a man," the woman said. "It only grazed you. You _fainted_ and the bump to your head knocked you out."

He watched her leave, touching his wound to reassure himself that he had indeed been shot. But there was also a suspicious knot on the back.

"Any chance of you not mentionin' this?" he asked.

His shooter looked immensely relieved. "Nothing could make me happier, my friend! Welcome to my home. Please, how can I make you comfortable?"

Remy forced himself to sit up. His head spun and he relied on the wall behind him for support. Rubbing the fog away from his eyes, he began his questions.

"If you like me so much, why did you _shoot_ me?"

"It was not my wish. I was being watched. If I did not follow the order, he would have come for my family."

"Who?"

"I don't know. I've never seen him. They call him 'Klaw', and for months now he's been buying or moving the king's officials. I love my King, but I won't die so that he can keep his throne."

"If you love him then why didn't warn him?"

"I tried, but who could I trust? I sent evidence to the palace, but he must've intercepted it."

He didn't. This was the man who tipped off Ororo, and just might have saved her life.

"Just before the phone call, there was an explosion."

"The palace," the man explained. "The Queen went back. She is as _fearless_ as they say."

" _Oui, mon ami_ , you don't wanna be on the short end of her temper," Remy smiled. Feeling stronger, he swung his feet over and tested them before standing. "D'you hear thunderstorms? See fire tornados?"

"No… It's been quiet."

.::.

Belle tore a ceremonial, curved sword from the wall and descended to the cellar. Long, powerful legs served to move her well over debris of flesh and stone, but she was beginning to lag. Four days ago, she landed in Wakanda, and hadn't had a full night's rest or decent meal since. Her mind flashed to Marius, who would certainly not allow her much sleep in the near future. Thinking of him made her both frightened and brave at the same time.

Storm washed the body of her late sister-in-law, facing away from Belle. Blue, feline eyes glanced up, away, and then finally back to Belle.

"Bella Donna…" She spoke as if waking from a dream. Her jaw set firmly. "Are you responsible for Shuri's demise?"

Belle meant to remind silent, but heard herself say, "She died honorably."

The weather goddess threw the first punch, which Belle easily dodged and returned with a sword thrust.

"And T'Challa?" Storm turned and kicked the blade from Belle's grip.

"He was the _first_ to abandon her!" Belle broke free and put some distance between them, scanning the perimeter for a weapon. This room was used for storage. The walls were lined with blankets, dishes, and medical supplies. Nothing appeared more deadly than her own hands and the sword, which was now out of her reach.

Storm sighed, visibly relieved to know her husband was safe. Then her royal mask returned. "You're fortunate to have found me first. Surrender yourself and-"

Belle rushed her. They fell into a heavy tangle of knuckles, elbows, and knees. Storm's delicate pulse was exposed and close enough to eat, but every time Belle got close, the weather goddess pushed back. A pinch to the right nerve would paralyze her; a puncture to the right vein would kill her. Belle was tantalizingly close…

A lucky foot hooked Belle's diaphragm, knocking her breathlessly across the room.

"These were good people!" Storm shouted. "They didn't deserve to be slaughtered!"

Still stunned, Belle felt warm strength returning to her veins. Her heart sank. If her powers had returned, then so had Storm's.

 _Damn Wakandian workmanship_ , she thought bitterly.

Storm's blue eyes faded white and a hurricane filled the cellar. She watched silently as lightning tore down the room and Belle was crushed between metal and cement. Smaller debris piled atop its larger brothers, followed slowly by dust centuries old. Storm let the ash coat her. She told Remy she would act as an X-Man, and X-Men didn't kill. But Queens butchered. As a child, she'd been a goddess. Her powers summoned rains: cool and sweet and merciful. Water droplets marked her face as the goddess summoned her mercy. Gently, she dug through the rubble to uncover Bella Donna.

A part of her wanted to kill her again. The larger part was relieved when Bella Donna gasped for air. Apparently, she didn't expect mercy.

"Thanks for being thorough…"

"Give me one reason," said Ororo, " _One reason_ I should spare your life."

"They have Remy."

Her righteous fury crumbled beneath regret. "Who does?"

"Osuwu."

Ororo considered her options. If this was true, then she was alone with no one to trust. She asked where Remy was being held.

"I don't know. …Aren't you _curious_ how Osuwu knew to blackmail me with that man?"

Her mind raced, finally accepting the assassination plot as well-planned and flawlessly executed. She and T'Challa were still alive because Osuwu had out-maneuvered them so brilliantly as to render them useless. But that didn't mean she would surrender.

"If I can guarantee Remy's safety," she said, "will you help me?"

"Do I have a choice?"

.::.

For two nights, the mad king walked without rest. On the third night, he dropped the corpse of his brother and fixated his eyes on something unseen. Perhaps he saw the land of the dead. He stumbled a few more paces before collapsing. It was impossible to mistake him for dead, for although he lay still, a deep moan pulsated from his chest. The sound rose and fell, but never stopped. Vultures circled above, giving their position away to other assassins.

Jean-Rene Capet from the Parisian Guild, April Mendez from Colombia, and unseen others were all after the same mark.

Thus far, Gris-Gris had the advantage.

Under Marius, the New Orleans sect had commanded a certain respect that Bella Donna lost. It wasn't her fault: she'd been too young to lead. Her lax policies and impulsive judgments made her sect less valuable than the commission. Although Gris-Gris loved her like a daughter, he was disappointed that she couldn't protect her own and resented cleaning up her messes.

Following the king's clumsy tracks, Gris-Gris finally found him alone and half joined to his brother. The endless moaning rang through the empty wasteland like an alarm. Was he _calling_ for death?

He quickly unsheathed his blade, closed the space between them, and lunged for the jugular.

Gris-Gris couldn't see that the mad king was still very much alive. His body appeared defeated, but his spirit had conquered the astral plane, where time had no jurisdiction. T'Challa realized Black Panther hadn't abandoned him with his sanity, but that both had been forcefully severed. Whoever was responsible would suffer pain without end. His throne was his birthright – as much _his_ as the blood in his veins!

T'Challa awoke with a furious cry, shocking Gris-Gris into inaction. In a flash, he charged at his attacker, turning the blade around and sinking it into his tender belly. Then he took the blade with the man's life, keeping one and leaving the other to bleed out.

A life for a life.

T'Challa took his brother to the nearest village, where they buried him with all the luxury they could afford. A feast of goat's milk, unleavened bread, and a marker made of grass wheat. The simplicity and honesty of it felt right. But the body of his would-be assassin was left where it fell – a feast for the vultures when he'd matured to their tastes.

.

 **Chapter Five  
** _"A curse on anyone who is lax in doing the LORD's work! A curse on anyone who keeps their sword from bloodshed!"  
~Jeremiah 48:10_

David strolled into parliament, both furious and delighted with Richards. The man had dismantled the machine only to trigger an automatic reboot at a later time. Yes, David was regretting his pitiful IT skills. But too late now. Parliament was assembled, witnesses had testified to Hunter's death by his brother's hands, and now Shuri was dead as well. Queen Ororo was deceased – or else David was certain to be struck down. The King, in his madness, had fled the country.

The beautiful and deadly Bella Donna had bolted for her lover and David let her go. Most of his hired hands were leaving, which suited him. When the dust settled, it would not do for foreign mercenaries to be seen loitering. It pained his heart to know he'd never see her again. She was a magnificent creature. But lions aren't suited for glass cages.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the assembly," he addressed, "It is my burden to confirm the worst news in our history. Our King has succumbed to _madness_ and our capital is under _attack_. In this time of crisis, we cannot hesitate! I humbly nominate myself as _regent_ to act in the king's stead until an acceptable replacement is found."

The room chilled and darkened. Ororo thundered: "Look no further! Your Queen is present!"

Most men cowered under her glare, but not David. He countered: "Your position is a favor granted to any king's wife. It does not _entitle_ you to rule. By law, only the Black Panther may rule. _You_ have no such title!"

"You _murdered_ my _family_ and _destroyed_ my _home_ , Osuwu! If you think you'll take my children's legacy as well, you are _mistaken_! I declare before you all that our nation's _greatest enemy_ stands at your helm. Do not be deceived!"

" _Madness_ is inherent in women. Perhaps it was _you_ who bewitched our King. I speak for _strength_! I speak for _tradition_ and _order_! I speak for _Wakanda_ when I say we must _not_ be weak and divided!" He turned to address the parliament. "Even now, she has issued _spies_ to summon her superhero allies to _join_ in the fight with Turkana _against_ us!"

"Against _you_ , traitor!"

"You see! She doesn't _deny_ it! We _must_ be prepared! We _must_ avenge our fallen comrades!"

.::.

Remy had planned to sneak out after nightfall, but that never happened. In broad daylight, the house became deathly quiet. It happened so gradually that he might have missed it, like a shadow slowly reaching across the sun dial. Only the cold prick of dread, the familiar scent of danger, raised his alarm. Cards waited lazily in his coat pocket. He deftly pulled three between his fingers and charged them like grenade.

His door opened and Belle appeared grim-faced.

"Let's go," she said. "Storm needs you."

He stood, slightly uneasy on his feet. "You're a good guy now?"

She laughed bitterly. "Yeah! Just like _you_."

He didn't see any bodies as they exited. "Been with hacks too long. I forget how _tidy_ a true _professional_ is. Of course, a _good_ guy would've slipped me through the window."

"Blow it out your ass! They would've _killed_ you if I hadn't taken the job." The statement, not quite a lie, but not really a truth, would pacify him. "Storm laid low long enough for me to find you, but they'll kill us both if they can. This place is _crawlin'_ with assassins. You and your buddies brought _knives_ to a _gun_ fight, cher."

Outside, she pulled a hood over her head and eyes. They raced to parliament as open targets. Remy had difficulty keeping pace, but she couldn't be bothered to worry. Her own life was on the line. The experienced critic in her knew that David probably planned to eliminate her, regardless of her decision, and she hoped the shinning armored knight in her rascal ex would have her back. Way, _way_ back at the rate he was moving…

They arrived too late.

Storm had sent Richards to summon the Avengers, who arrived almost immediately and located T'Challa. A rescue team was _en route_ to retrieve him. However, David refused to step aside, and Ororo refused to postpone justice. A battle had erupted as both attempted to remove the other. Soon, the parliament would be as damaged as the palace.

" _Nope_ ," said Belle, "I'm out."

"Wait!" Remy grabbed her arm, and then was flat on his back, looking at blue sky.

"Think you're any good to her now?" she hissed. "You're just a _distraction_."

She turned away and he threw charged cards at her feet. The soles of her shoes burned and she turned on him with fire in her eyes.

"You knew this would happen!" he said. "You came here to _kill_ Storm, didn't you? You're not _leavin'_ until this is fixed."

"Or _what_?"

"She _knew_ you were here. _I_ convinced her that you were an _asset_ , not a _threat_."

"That's _exactly_ the kind of thinking that caused this!"

"Belle," he growled. "One day you'll need us again. You'll need _me_ … X-Men believe you ain't worth the trouble to take out. Let's not ruin a good thing, eh?"

She huffed. "He wants me _dead_. Your _friends_ want me dead. _You're_ determined to make it happen! So if I _die_ , there's a boy named Marius at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He's my son and I'm holding _you_ responsible."

Remy looked like he didn't know who she was.

"Come on," she cracked her knuckles. "Let's not make a scene."

In the fray, David and his army had the advantage. They knew the layout, were armed, and were prepared for combat. The Avengers wanted to retreat, regroup, and attempt to peacefully oust David. They did not want to be responsible for harming ordinary soldiers, who _may_ or _may not_ be justified in their actions, and who _may_ or _may not_ have been coerced. Storm, however, refused. She knew that whoever had possession of the government was in charge, and she wouldn't let David take that for a moment!

"Cover me!" Belle told Remy.

He was too happy to leap to his Stormy's defense while Belle closed in on David. The Queen was still playing soft. Belle, however, was _beyond_ weary of Africa. Woe to the man standing between her and the plane home.

David looked momentarily stunned to see her. She leapt at him, but he turned just in time to roll her over him and into the wall. She crashed onto the floor and was shot twice before she could raise a force field. Incidentally, Remy fired cards at her attackers as her force field pushed them away. Caught between the two, the soldiers were serious wounded.

She seized her chance attack David unguarded. Hands burning, she fired plasma blasts at his heart. He fell back, gun flying away. She unsheathed the hunting knife at her back and meant to carve out his heart, but two rounds to the chest cost the last of her strength. Unbalanced, she fell back and lay unmoving.

.::.

 _St. Bartholomew's Hospital  
_ Belle awoke handcuffed to the bed.

"Steve," said a woman, "She's comin' to."

She knew that voice anywhere. Rogue. Remy's sweetheart. With effort, Belle forced her eyes to open. Her body was heavy. Her mouth dry. Her hair dirty.

Captain America strode into view, and Belle tried to sit up and fix her hair. When the handcuffs prevented her from either, she turned to a blurry Rogue and croaked: "Help a girl out, chere. Push my hair back."

"If you're too weak, ma'am, we can come back."

"Gonna take these with you?" she tugged at the cuffs.

"Afraid not until I get some answers."

"Belle," Rogue said sternly while softly smoothing Belle's hair, "Be honest. We already know what happened. Ah'll know if you lie, and Ah've got my own ways of gettin' the truth." She waved her bare hand as a reminder of her mutant ability to steal memories through skin-to-skin contact.

Belle brought forward her last night with Remy in vivid detail. Then, with a smile, said: "I dare you."

"What were you doing in Wakanda?" asked Captain.

"Charity work."

"With a false passport?"

"Screw you. Where's my-" she stopped herself. The damn drugs had addled her mind and loosened her tongue.

"Who?" pressed Rogue. "…If you were gonna say 'where's my co-worker?' Ah'm afraid he's dead. By the time we found Gris-Gris, his body was too damaged to determine a cause of death. But he's been shipped home at no cost to you."

Belle closed her eyes.

"If you were gonna say 'where's my son?' He's safe down the hall," she continued. "Although he's _clearly_ a refugee. What the _hell_ are _you_ doin' with him?"

"God gave him to me!"

"And if you were gonna say 'where's my boss?' He's safely behind bars. Ah'm curious why you'd attack him. Isn't it _forbidden_ to kill the man writing your checks?"

"I was gonna say 'where's my husband?'"

Rogue's face betrayed nothing. "…He's safe."

"They're questionin' him now, aren't they? They wanted _you_ out the room."

" _Ah'm_ asking questions here! What are you doin' with a false passport?"

"Ain't false," she said easily. "LeBeau's my legal name. Bella Donna's my stage name."

Captain repeated: "What were you doing in Wakanda?"

"I told you. Charity work. We delivered supplies to a refugee camp. That's where I found my son. Hospital had to keep him all week, so I stayed."

"Sure you weren't here for _business_?" Rogue asked. "An 'Isabella LeBeau' registered as a journalist shortly after you arrived."

"Huh. Ain't that somethin'?"

"So _not_ you?"

" _Non_."

"Ma'am," he gently interrupted, "Where'd you stay?"

"Nowhere. Got caught in the battle."

"Ain't that somethin'," Rogue mocked. "How exactly did _that_ happen?"

"We went to the palace. Touristy thing to do. I was caught in the explosion."

"Must've been terrifying," said Captain, moving closer and unlocking her cuffs. Rogue rolled her eyes and walked to the other side of the room.

' _They've got the good cop/bad cop worked out,'_ Belle thought. She decided to toss them a bone and said: "I thought I died. I was home, but it looked like it did when I was a kid. And Remy was there… You know Remy?"

"Gambit," he acknowledged.

"My husband. I swear, it was _him_. He _knew_ things, _said_ things no one could _possibly_ know but him. Things I didn't even know. But it wasn't him. Somehow, they got in my head and used my memories against me. They said they had him and if I didn't obey, he was dead."

"So what did you do?"

"I killed Shuri and I tried to kill Storm. She bested me, cheater. I thought she was gonna kill me, so I told her about Remy. She let me go. I found him and we went back to help… I know what this looks like, but I was only tryin' to protect my family."

The two interrogators exchanged looks and then he told Belle: "I'll have a nurse bring your son. As soon as we're done de-briefing Gambit, I'll send him to take you home. Hospital needs every bed. If we have any more questions, where can we reach you?"

Outside her room, he said: "Her story holds up."

"Not really," argued Rogue. "It wasn't _her_ idea to help Storm! And _no one_ in Turkana _accidently_ finds themselves in Wakanda!"

"I don't doubt that she's lying to make herself look better. But she _confessed_. She didn't try to give me a fake follow-up address, her story matches Storm's, and her hallucination would explain Hunter and T'Challa's violent behavior. She's the most compliant interview we've had so far. Now we've got _another_ thirteen Jane and John Does that we need to ID and question if we're going to build a case against Osuwu. How's your head?"

"Never better."

Marius was delivered to Belle as promised. The bruises and bone protrusions were gone. She learned to change a diaper and was feeding him a bottle when Remy arrived.

"Hope you've come to apologize," she said. "You're lousy cover."

"Flesh wounds, chere. _I_ took a shot to the head."

" _Great_. All the shrapnel in our flesh is gonna shut down JFK."

"You've got bigger problems." He nodded at Marius. "How're you gonna explain this to Hadji?"

She hadn't thought about Pransu since leaving New Orleans. It seemed there was nothing to explain.

"We both know I won't be seein' him again," she said quietly. "Where're they sendin' us? Or are you gonna tow the party line and pretend like we're goin' home? Christ, I _can't_ let them _book_ me."

He kissed her temple and whispered, "I can get you as far as Moscow. Cab's waitin'. Be ready for my signal."

A nearby explosion shook the building.

Stunned, she said: "Your timing's perfect, cher."

"Thanks, but that wasn't me."

Remy, Belle, and everyone else who was able evacuated into the street. They could see the jailhouse on the corner, surrounded by clouds of earthen dust that failed to conceal an armored truck. A chain extended from the truck to a crumbled wall. Two men who resembled Isaie and Olivier Osuwu chased off bystanders by firing their rifles into the air. Then David emerged from the dust cloud, limping and coughing. His wife snatched him up; his sons leapt after him. The truck burned rubber, slamming through the barely assembled police barricade, and vanishing into the night.

 _One Month Later  
New Orleans..  
_Rogue kept a respectful distance from the black parade. After the service, Remy waved her down and they found a cafe. He noticed a grumpy looking business man in the corner who kept checking his phone. Finally, he stood and left, leaving behind a faint trace of cigars.

"Ah thought for _sure_ she'd come home by now," said Rogue, adding cream to her coffee.

"Whoever do you mean?" Remy asked, drinking his black.

She frowned. "You _know_ who."

"Voldemort?"

"Don't suppose _you'd_ tell me where she is?"

"Be awfully _stupid_ to tell _me_. All you have to do is _touch_ me and you'd know all my secrets. And as far as _she_ knew, you couldn't keep your hands off me."

"Ah don't know, Remy…" She looked dreamily out the window. "She had a _history_ here. Ah never thought she'd run away… Yeah, it's stupid, but Ah always thought she led from the _heart_ , not the _head_." Her eyes locked on his. "Ah guess Ah really _don't_ know people as well as Ah thought."

"Your instincts are _never_ wrong. Heart _or_ head. You're only doubtin' yourself because the _Avengers_ do."

"It's _you_ Ah doubt! Thought you'd be _honest_ with me if it kept Storm safe. Instead, you sit there playin' dumb, waitin' for a kiss!"

He smiled ruefully and threw some cash on the table. "When a _femme_ needs help, she usually comes on sweet. Try it sometime, Anna."

He walked down the street and around the corner to his motorcycle parked at a meter. Before he left, an eager young missionary handed him a religious pamphlet with a watchtower on front. Inside, he found a blank postcard from St. Lucia. The papers glowed neon before detonating. Ashes fluttered in the exhaust trail leading east: past the Mississippi, through auburn country and peach groves to crystal clear beaches beyond the Keys.

.

 _C'est fini_.


End file.
